Lucien's Girl
by bananashplito
Summary: Whilst healing in the cottage from series 3 episode 7, Lucien Grimaud meets a figure from his past, before he became a weapon. This one-shot shows the impact of Grimaud's decisions on the woman who loved him (T just to be safe).


Lucien Grimaud panted with pain as he rubbed the alcohol into the gunshot wound ripping across his stomach. The skin around the area was burning with inflamation, and the hole had barely even begun to heal. With a weary sigh, Lucien repeated the action on the wound below his ear. Once the red-hot stinging had burnt out into a gentle throb, he lay back down on the bed. The cottage Theresa had found him was small, non-descript and surrounded by dense woodland. Despite the rotting wood, dust and cobwebs, it made a good hide-away for a man condemmed of murder and treason.

Lucien could almost relax listening to the gentle wet thrum of the rain on the old roof and the soft sigh of branches dancing in the breeze. Almost, if he could slow the raging swirl of hate pulsing in his heart. Almost, if he could still the endless twisted scheming marching through his brain. But he could not. Every unexpected noise sent his hand jumping for a pistol. He was filled inside with cold unreasoning red rage. He caring nothing for anyone except perhaps Theresa, who's feet he had collapsed at three days before, blood dripping steadily from his wounds to stain the floor and her skirts. She had dragged him to the cottage, fed and bathed him, attempted to treat his wounds. She was the only person but one who had ever shown care for him in his entire life. He refused to allow her attentions to thaw his frozen heart, but for the first time since leaving his home he had smiled. A hard, broken smile but a smile none the less. She knew who he was and what he was, but she didn't care.

A small frown settled over Lucien's features as he thought about Feron. Yes, perhaps he could have cared for Feron. But he had betrayed him. It hadn't been easy to slip the knife into his guts and watch the wicked wit fade away before him. That was more than could be said for most of his killings. Usually, it didn't bother him at all. It wasn't that he enjoyed causing death, he just didn't feel anything. No remorse, no pleasure, nothing. That was what had singled him out to Feron, as well as his thirst for power over the world that had made his life a misery for being what he was. The son of a whore. That hadn't been the case, but that was the way the world took it, so he had learnt to accepted it that way. Feron hadn't cared about that at all, just the mission. Lucien wondered if perhaps Feron had actually cared about him as a person as well. He had certainly cared enough to raise him from the gutter, give him strength and pride, and personally teach him to read and write. He had taught him to hate and desire revenge as well. Whether that was from care or to forge an effective weapon, Lucien would now never know. His mentor lay dead in a cold, damp tomb within the royal vault.

Lucien was brought sharply out of his dark reflections by a soft knock at the door. He leapt up in alarm, biting back a grunt as the movement jerked his tender wounds. His hands closed on both a pistol and a knife. Perhaps it was Theresa. Perhaps it wasnt. Measuring his tread and breathing, he silently approached the door. He kicked it open and had his gun to the head of the person before he could see who it was. When he did his jaw dropped open and he sagged against the doorframe in shock.

A young woman stood before him. The tip of the pistol was buried in the thick raven hair that pooled in unruly curls about her shoulders. Her features were regular enough – a small nose and mouth with an elfin tilt to her jaw. It was her eyes that made her appearance so striking. They were a stunning vibrant green that glowed against her pale skin. It was these that caused some to call her beautiful, others to call her a witch. For What had always struck Lucien was how they burned with both a gentle kindness and a fiery spirit. They drew him in and drowned him. The girl wore a familiar dark green shirt with plain leather trousers. One hand was clenched tight about the handle of the knife at her slim waist in response to his sudden attack.

"Edmée?" whispered Lucien hoarsely.

The girl's stance relaxed slightly, and she let her hand drop to her side. "Yes, it's me, Lucien." Her voice was soft and unsure. It swept over Lucien like a breath of fresh air to a man who is suffocating.

He didn't let it show, however. Instead he hissed aggressively "What the hell are you doing here?!"

Edmée was peering into his face. "Theresa sent me to stich your wounds. She has not the skill nor the stomach. She also thought I might like to know you were here." she added, looking at the ground.

Lucien's head was spinning with a whirl of emotions he didn't know he still possessed. He made an effort to control them. When he spoke, his voice was quite steady. "I didn't know you were staying with the women. Why did you leave home?"

"Why did you?" she retorted sharply, meeting his eyes with alarming strength. "You left with no warning at all. You didn't even bother to tell me."

Lucien was distracted by the feeling of warm blood seeping down his stomach. He must have torn the scab whilst reaching for his weapons. He leaned more heavily against the wooden beam. "Go back to the village, Edmée. I don't need you." He said coldly.

He turned away from her accusing piercing eyes and attempted to re-enter the cottage. However, his knees suddenly gave way and he found himself groaning in agony on the floor, blood flowing down his face and dripping from his shirt. He barely heard Edmée's cry of alarm as the world about him swung sickeningly and he fell into unconsciousness.

When Lucien awoke in bed he was alone and in darkness with a pounding head. He scrambled to remember what had happened. The door creaked open and he tried desperately to stand and grab a weapon, but fell back down with a swirl of nausea. Somebody sighed exasperatedly. A candle flickered to life, illuminating the figure of Edmée holding a bowl of water between her small hands.

She watched him warily from beneath her tangled black tresses as she drew a needle from her bodice. "Your wounds need stitching, Lucien." she said firmly. "Another accident like that and you will bleed to death."

Lucien said nothing. He just watched her silently.

Taking that as a sign of submission, Edmée dragged the candle, bowl and a stool over to his bedside. "It's going to hurt." she stated bluntly.

"Do you know what I am, Edmée?" Lucien asked her.

She ignored him and began to thread her needle.

"I'm a killer and a traitor. I have murdered more innocent men than I can count, and yet I cannot bring myself to care in the slightest. I am currently in the midst of a scheme to kill the king and replace him with his younger brother, whose gratitude and dependence will secure me with power and status to seek revenge on all those who have wronged me."

Still she ignored him.

He huffed in exasperation. "Why haven't you left me by now?!" he demanded.

She flicked her hair out of her eyes in annoyance. "Shut up for a minute, will you? I'm trying to concentrate."

Lucien could only stare at her in astonishment. "Edmée..." he began again uncertainly.

"There. I've done it. Take your shirt off."

Silently he started untying his shirt. A sad expression flitted briefly across Edmée's face for a moment before she could hide it, and he noticed.

"What?"

She shrugged and attempted a laugh. "It's nothing."

"Tell me." he growled, and the intensity of his voice made her start in surprise.

"Well..." she tried to sound light and carefree. "There was a time when you would tease me terribly if I told you to take your shirt off."

A heavy weight settled between them at the remark. Nothing stirred, apart from the brief flicker of the candle.

Eventually, Lucien steeling himself and muttered "I'm not that boy any more, Edmée."

"I know. You have a beard." Edmée replied very seriously.

A tiny smile brightened Lucien's features for just a moment, before it could be extinguished. It made her heart leap.

However, he merely replied "I mean it, Edmée. Stop trying to lighten the mood and get on with it."

She complied and brought the needle to the wound. "As I said, it's going to hurt."

"Just do i-"

She had jabbed the needle firmly into his skin before he was ready, and in his surprise he grabbed hold of her wrist tightly.

"Lucien. Your hurting me."

He let go immediately. "Edmée, I'm so sorry. I never meant to...how badly does it hurt?" in his horror, he didn't release that that was the first time he had apologised since leaving home. Or regretted causing pain.

She pushed him firmly back down. "I'm fine. It was just an accident. Are you ready this time?"

He gritted his teeth and nodded, and she carefully sewed up both wounds. By the time she was finished, Lucien was sweaty and pale with pain.

Edmée gently wiped his face with a damp cloth. "It's over. Go to sleep now, Lucien. You need to rest."

Almost against his will, her elf-like face faded from his mind and sleep washed over him.

Edmée sat and watched him for a while. She sadly noted the changes in him since he left. The eyes that once had danced with mischievous youth had darkened and become hard. A scar roped its way across his worn face. His dark hair had grown long and mattered, and a thick beard obscured his sharp jaw and mouth. His voice had changed too. Once, it had been clear and drawling. Though he had carried the burden of his parentage throughout his youth, it never had affected him as it did now. Perhaps that was because although the inhabitants of the village they both grew up in had never been able to accept him, they had not treated him with more unkindness than he could bear. Yes, he had been lonely, but not hurt. He had been a bright, witty, sarcastic boy full of energy, who was always getting into mischief. They had first met at fourteen, when he found her gathering firewood in the woods for her family. Since then they had been inseparable, and the terror of the neighbourhood. They had belonged together as outcasts. Five years later he left without any explanation and never came back, and her life changed in so many ways she could no longer recognise it.

She had tried so many times to forget what had passed between them. He had clearly succeeded. He had squeezed every emotion out of his heart and become a broken, twisted shell of a once bright and merry human being. His hands were stained with the blood of the innocent, his soul blackened beyond any restoration. He was evil, and wrong, and she knew she should be frightened of him. Yet when she saw him sleeping there, every line wiped from his face, she could not believe he could be so very changed.

Edmée, physically and emotionally exhausted by the day's events, sank down onto the floor and fell sound asleep with her head lightly resting against the side of the bed.

When Lucien awoke, he found he was yet again alone. He felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach and quickly squashed it out. It was good she was gone. He had never wanted to be reminded of her existence, and the way she made him feel alive again.

Pushed his shirt up, he examined her handiwork. The stitching was very neat and small, and the wound had darkened from red to dark purple. Cautiously, he sat up. It did not pain him nearly as much as it had before. Now he could heal properly and continue with his vital mission. He stood and very gently began to stretch out his aching muscles.

Damn those blasted musketeers and that wretched girl Sylvie, he thought savagely. _How could they reduce me to such a pitiful state?_ His mind began to whir as he considered how he might again attempt to end them.

His violent thoughts were interrupted by the most wondrous sound he had ever heard in his life.

Very carefully, so as not to startle the source, he craned his neck out of the window.

Edmée was scrubbing at his clothes with a brush and a bucket. The water inside was pink with blood. As she did so she sang a popular tune often sung around a campfire. Normally, the song was merry but without much musicality. However, as Edmée sang it was utterly transformed into the work of a master. She hadn't noticed him yet, and he prayed she never would, because she was incredibly shy about her voice and never sang in front of people. Not even him, when they were younger. Who knows why – she could have made something of herself as a singer.

Lucien felt a genuine smile lift his lips as he leaned against the pane and listened. He also felt a strange stirring in his chest and for once just let it be.

Then a twig snapped somewhere out in the woods and she raised her head and saw him watching. Instantly, she fell silent and her cheeks flushed bright red. Her eyes narrowed and filled with burning anger that he had invaded on her privacy in such a way.

Lucien withdrew and, grabbing a bottle of wine, retreated to the bed. After a short time, Edmée came back inside, raking her inky mane out of her eyes. Without saying anything, she strode over and yanked his shirt up to survey the wound. "Yes, that will heal. You wanted me to go before, and now I will. I shall tell Theresa to bring you some more food."

She turned to go but was stopped suddenly by two hands grabbing hold of her waist firmly. Before she could react, she was spun around and Lucien was kissing her desperately. For a moment, she could only stand there as his arms tightened around her and he took her breath away. Then Lucien felt her hands running over his chest and lean muscles, before they tightened on his shoulders. She leaned into him as his lips crushed against hers and his hands twined into her hair.

Finally, they broke apart. Lucien laid his forehead against Edmée's and continued to hold her close. They both panted for air and neither said anything for a while, content in the warmth and familiarity of their embrace.

"...I still love you, Edmée. I never stopped, you know." Lucien finally whispered softly.

Edmée tighted her grip on his hair. "I missed you. You said you would marry me when we were older. Why did you leave me? Was it my fault?"

The hurt in her voice made Lucien's heart contract painfully. "I had to Ed. You don't know what it was like..."

"I did know!" she replied angrily, shoving him hard in the chest before pulling him back to her again. "knew that you were lonely. I knew you wanted to fit in. I knew you thought it might be easier in a place where no one knew you. But I didn't know you would go without taking me with you."

"You had a family, Edmée...you fit in. I couldn't take that from you and exchange it for a life of uncertainty and danger."

"...had a family." she whispered softly. Her body slumped in his arms. Lucien drew back in horror when he felt a tear brush against his cheek.

"what do you mean?" he demanded in alarm.

"I had a family. I don't any more. Two weeks after you left the village was invaded by looters. I was out in the woods in our clearing, hoping you would come back for me. When I came home late at night, my mother, father and brother lay cold and dead across the floor, and our house had been ransacked. I had nothing and no one." she spoke in a cold, blunt voice very unlike her own.

"Edmée...I'm so sorry." whispered Lucien, stroking her cheek. "had I known-"

"-how could you have known?"

"God, Edmée...so you went with the women to forge a new life?"

She nodded. "But your new life wasn't what you expected it to be, was it? What happened?"

Lucien shrugged. "It was worse. Far far worse. So many people suffering whilst the rich grew fat. It turned them desperate and cruel. In the end I learnt to defend myself. To be like them. But worse. That was my way of gaining individuality, and it suited me."

"...I don't think so." she said, and her voice was so sad that Lucien drew her against his chest and kissed the top of her head in an attempt to comfort her. "Here, now, you haven't changed at all." she added wistfully.

"Here, now, does not exist." was his empty reply.

She was silent at that, but inside her heart throbbed with pain. "Oh Lucien, please don't do this. Stay and learn to be happy again. You don't need revenge or power."

Lucien grew rigid at this, and stiffly pushed her away. "How would you know what I need? You don't know me anymore. If you think this," he waved his hand between them and then at the cottage, "makes me who you thought I was, then you're wrong."

Edmée growled in frustration. "You are so tangled up in pain, Lucien. It's you who doesn't know you anymore, not me."

"I KNOW WHAT I AM!" Lucien yelled at her suddenly. "the filthy son of a whore. That's who I am! Everyone believes it to be true, so it must be. I am nothing now. Don't stand in the way of me being something in the future."

"WHAT FUTURE?!" Edmée screamed back at him with equal passion. "You think Louis' brother will be a better leader than him? You won't have a future, because France will not have a future! Open your eyes and look around at the world you will create!"

Lucien snarled and shoved her back against the wall. "You are just a simple girl! You know NOTHING of the world!"

"And you are a greedy, angry man determined to make everyone else as miserable as himself!" Her green eyes flashed with fury and pain.

"Yes. I am. I tried to warn you, but you wouldn't listen." Lucien's voice became less rough, and he loosened his grip about her throat.

"I did listen. I just didn't want to believe it." she murmured, and saw him flinch.

"Well now you do." he said coldly and dully, before releasing her and retreating to the other side of the room. He sat down on the bed feeling empty and drained. He didn't bother to lift his eyes as Edmée joined him and settled at his feet.

"Yes, I do." she said, grabbing his chin and forcing him to look into her eyes. "And I'm still in love with you."

"...why?" he croaked, gently cradling her hands in his lap.

She was silent and looked down at her lap, allowing her hair to fall across her face. "...I don't know."

Just then, there was a frantic knocking at the door. Lucien stood drew Edmée up with him. Shielding her with his body, he opened the door.

Theresa was standing there, panting and twisting her hands in distress. "Lucien," she cried, "you've got to leave now. The musketeers are at the village. They will find you if you linger any longer."

"They will kill you, won't they?" said Edmée, gazing up at his face from within his arms.

"Yes." he stated calmly. "So I must go." he released her and began gathering his very few possessions together. Theresa helped him.

"Go where?" asked Edmée quietly, afraid she already knew the answer.

"To Gaston."

She bowed her head in sorrow, but raised it when he came near and kissed her tenderly on the mouth once more. Theresa didn't bat an eyelid - she knew Lucien's feelings for the girl and vice-versa, and had hoped to bring them together.

"Come with me?" Lucien asked, his voice suddenly full of vulnerability and his eyes alight with childish hope.

"No." stated Edmée immediately, hating herself for the way the dark mask dropped down onto his face once more. "I can never believe in your dream."

"Your right." he muttered roughly. "It's no place for you, anyway. You would get hurt. You should never have helped me, you know."

"I know. I helped destroy France."

"If you say so." Lucien was ready to leave, by then. "Goodbye, then, Edmée." he said impersonally before stepping out of the cottage. "This was a dream, and I will forget it. I must, or I will ruin myself as a weapon to achieving my aims. Do you understand?"

"No." whispered Edmée. "I don't understand you anymore."

Lucien had once again transformed into the ice-cold, heartless assassin. "That's for the best." he grunted roughly, before setting off into the forest. He didn't look back once at the girl watching him melt away. He hardened all the emotions she had softened in him once more.

Edmée waited until he was out of sight before walking slowly back toward the village. She felt the dead weight inside her chest as she thought how she had betrayed France and doubtless put the lives of innocent people in danger for love a man she did not even know anymore.

 **HOPE YOU ENJOYED IT! DO LEAVE A REVIEW IF YOU DID (OR DIDN'T!). I THOUGHT GRIMAUD WAS A BIT UNDEREPRENSETED, HENCE THIS SMALL STORY.**


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